


Safe Distance

by shaenie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-01
Updated: 2008-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 03:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The hammock was something he'd done more or less on a whim, liking the <em>idea</em> of it more than really expecting to use it. It's not like Rodney is much of an escape-for-a-nap in the middle of the day kind of guy, let alone a sleep-outside-with-the-bugs-and-risk-the-likelihood-of-slowly-developing-skin-cancer kind of guy.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the fluff. I have no idea. This was actually supposed to be for [](http://community.livejournal.com/kink_bingo/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/kink_bingo/), prompt: public sex, and it ended up just. So. Fluffy. *facepalm* But it's SHORT! \o/

  
_Boredom, thy name is Mandatory Rest Day,_ Rodney thinks, sighing. Carter is clearly the devil -- he can't imagine what he ever saw in her. She had left him sputtering in incoherent fury outside the locked door of his lab after explaining that he could get back in only with his emergency override code, and that she'd know if he used it. She'd smirked while she explained, and Rodney had been a little surprised to find himself fighting the faint urge to smack her. Just a little.

He supposes it's Sheppard rubbing off on him. He isn't really much of a "smacker" by nature.

He can't access any of the projects stored on the primary server from his laptop, either. He'd tried. The message box that had popped up informed him that his access was suspended, and asked if he'd like to enter an emergency override code. The whole mocking thing had Carter's sticky, bad-programming fingerprints all over it, and while he was nearly certain he could successfully hack it given a little time, Sam was familiar with Rodney's skill-set, and would almost certainly have set alarms in place to inform her of any meddling, even if they couldn't actually prevent said meddling.

It's all very arbitrary, not to mention overbearing and imperious, and other things that mean moronically high-handed.

Fortunately for him, he hasn't got where he is by not having a back-up plan.

He's got side-projects housed entirely on his own laptop and external hard drive, and while things would undoubtedly proceed faster and easier with Atlantis' processing power behind whatever he's working on, it isn't like he hasn't worked miracles and performed scientific feats of stratospheric brilliance without it before.

He tucks his laptop under one arm and makes his way to his favorite balcony, only to find it occupied.

By Sheppard. Who seems to be sleeping in the hammock some enterprising soul (i.e.: Rodney) had strung up between the railing and a convenient bit of the decorative, wall-mounted something-or-other that Atlantis seems to have in abundance.

It isn't so much that Rodney had actually planned on using the hammock. He actually almost never uses it. It's bad for his back, and awkward for computing; he'd actually been planning on using the reclining lounger that's folded up and tucked behind one of the empty pots that most of the balconies have scattered about. The hammock was something he'd done more or less on a whim, liking the _idea_ of it more than really expecting to use it. It's not like Rodney is much of an escape-for-a-nap-in-the-middle-of-the-day kind of guy, let alone a sleep-outside-with-the-bugs-and-risk-the-likelihood-of-slowly-developing-skin-cancer kind of guy.

He just likes the idea that he _could_. He likes the idea that this is his home, and he can do something like that if he wants.

He's never actually mentioned to anyone that it's there.

He's never seen anyone other than himself on this particular balcony, either. It's not what most of the expedition, reckless sun-worshipers that they all seem to be, would call ideal. It only gets a couple of hours of direct sunlight, positioned as it is between several of Atlantis' spires, and doesn't have much of a view compared to most of the other ten to the tenth balconies scattered around the city. This balcony, the one Rodney privately thinks of as _his_ , is only a few stories up, surrounded by buildings, and is utterly lacking in reasonably convenient transporter access.

He's faintly annoyed at what feels like an intrusion, even if it is technically a public space, but mostly he's just surprised.

Sheppard's wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans (something Rodney has certainly never seen him wearing before, and is unlikely to ever forget seeing hereafter), an iPod, and one flip-flop (on his left foot; the right flip-flop is on the ground slightly underneath the hammock, probably due to the fact that his right leg is bent at the knee and half-hanging over the side, naked foot dangling above the ground). There's a single empty beer bottle on the ground near Sheppard's head, and an open book lying face-down next to it. The spine reads [The Encyclopedia of World Military Aircraft](http://www.amazon.com/Encyclopedia-World-Military-Aircraft/dp/0760722080); the image on the front is of some sort of fighter-type plane viewed from below and surrounded by clear blue sky.

His chest is just as hairy as it always is, and his legs are long and lean and thick with visible muscle in all the right places. His belly is mostly flat, the skin tucked into folds from the curve of his body cradled in the hammock. His left arm is behind his head, and his right hand is loosely curled half on his belly, half on the waist of his shorts.

His face is at ease in a way that Rodney nearly never sees it, brow smooth and clear, with no strain and no faux-smiles.

Rodney can nearly picture how it had happened: Sheppard looking at his big book of fast toys and grinning his little-boy grin (the real one, the _ohmygod, that'ssocool_ one that Rodney is helpless to defend against), listening to horrible country music and drinking a beer, feeling the breeze off the ocean, growing heavy-lidded with nowhere to be, first drowsing and then dozing, and finally putting the book aside and letting himself drift into real sleep.

And now Rodney feels like _he's_ the one intruding, and thinks about retreating; he can work just as well in his quarters, after all, or on another, unoccupied, balcony.

Except.

Well, it's nearly noon, the only time of the day that this balcony isn't in the shade, and if he leaves Sheppard sleeping here, he'll probably get baked to a crisp by New Lantea's F2V class sun.

Rodney ponders this from a safe distance for two or three minutes.

On the one hand -- the hand that includes him _not_ getting close enough to Sheppard to potentially snap and touch him in every inappropriate place on his mental, Sheppard-specific DO NOT DO THIS list -- Sheppard will never know Rodney was ever here, and certainly won't blame Rodney when he eventually ends up with cancerous melanoma.

On the other hand, _Rodney_ will know, and he's become far more intimately acquainted with guilt in the last four years than he ever would have imagined possible while stationed safely on Earth.

He sighs, irritatingly cognizant of his own ridiculousness for several unpleasantly self-aware seconds. Besides, seriously: what are the chances that he'll actually snap and lose all Sheppard-related self control in the next five minutes when he's been successfully _not_ snapping for years now?

He takes three big steps forward before he can lose his nerve, and puts his laptop down next to Sheppard's masturbation material.

He's seen Sheppard when he's startled out of sleep, and he fully intends to be as careful as is humanly possible to avoid obtaining a black eye or a broken nose, but if he does, well. It won't kill him. If Rodney drops and damages his laptop, however, it really might.

Up close, he's dismayed to find, Sheppard smells like clean sweat and warm skin. He swallows hard, and murmurs, "Sheppard?" hovering just out of swinging distance, just in case. Sheppard doesn't react, of course. It's doubtful that he can hear anything at all over the distantly tinny strains of Johnny Cash that Rodney can hear emanating from the headphones tucked into his ears.

He sighs again, and reaches out, hand hovering over Sheppard's bare shoulder for long, indecisive seconds before he nerves himself up enough to let it come to rest lightly, the heel of his palm against Sheppard's collar bone, fingertips curled up over the strong, sweeping curve where his shoulder joins his neck. "Sheppard?" he murmurs again, a little thickly. "Wake up; you'll burn."

Sheppard hums out a breath, low and contented, and mumbles, "R'dney." His lips curl into a tiny, pleased smile, and his eyelids don't even flutter. He shifts slightly, as people do in sleep, and Rodney is a little appalled to find himself looking at a tiny patch of stubble just under Sheppard's chin that he must've missed while shaving, and smiling what is undoubtedly a stupidly fond smile.

It only lasts a second, because Sheppard shifts again, sighing, and slides his right hand under the waist of his cut-offs, the top button of which, Rodney sees from what turns out to be an injudiciously close vantage point, is undone. Rodney stares, helpless not to; the wiry muscles in Sheppard's forearm flex abruptly, and Rodney catches a brief, shattering glimpse of Sheppard's thumb sweeping across the head of what is undeniably Sheppard's cock. Sheppard makes another pleased humming sound, eyes still closed, and Rodney snatches his hand off of Sheppard's shoulder and takes a couple of quick backward steps, retreats to a prudently safe distance.

Sheppard's eyes snap open and fix on Rodney, wide with surprise.

 _Crap_ , Rodney thinks, mentally understating the depths of his dismay because honestly, _anything_ would be understating at this point.

Sheppard's eyes somehow go even wider; Rodney thinks his own must be about the same.

"Fuck," Sheppard says. Rodney says nothing. "That did not just happen," he adds, voice whole orders of magnitude more shaky and uncertain than Rodney has ever heard it sound. Sheppard tugs one of the headphones out of his ear by the cord.

Rodney, feeling trapped and guilty and perversely indignant, snaps, "You said _my name_ , Sheppard."

Sheppard's expression goes momentarily stricken; he closes his eyes briefly, brows drawn together. "I-" he says faintly, and Rodney thinks, _Oh._ Sheppard's right hand, he sees, is still tucked into the front of his cut-offs, presumably still curled around his cock.

Rodney thinks, _Oh,_ again, understanding like a lightning-strike, a little cartoon light-bulb, a EUREKA! He points an unsteady finger at Sheppard. "You!" he snaps, and Sheppard blinks at him. "You _moron!_ " he accuses, and Sheppard's face starts to twitch into something indignant or petulant or something else, Rodney doesn't even care. He strides back over to the hammock and reaches, closes his hand around Sheppard's wrist just above the washed-soft denim of his cut-offs and pulls until Sheppard's hand slides out, jerks the fly open roughly, revealing Sheppard's long, hard cock, rosy-skinned and slick at the tip.

Rodney pauses just long enough to glance left, to see Sheppard staring, slack-faced and dazed, at Rodney, and then bends and licks salt-bitter precome from the head of Sheppard's cock.

Sheppard makes a low, grating noise and the hammock sways alarmingly until Rodney curls his hands around Sheppard's hips and stills it. "You're an idiot," he tells Sheppard's cock, and hooks a thumb under the base to lift it enough that he can slide his tongue under the head, close his lips behind the flare and suck lightly. The skin of Sheppard's cock is salt-heavy with sweat from being smothered in denim, and tastes better than anything in the entire history of _ever_. Rodney lets out an entirely involuntary little moan, and backs off to curl his fist around the base.

"Rodney," Sheppard whispers unsteadily; it doesn't sound anything like an objection.

"Busy now," Rodney tells him absently, and gives Sheppard's cock a long, slow stroke, watching moisture bead immediately at the slit. He swipes his thumb through it, smears it across the silk-smooth head, and Sheppard sucks in a breath. "Moron," Rodney adds perfunctorily, and takes Sheppard in his mouth again, lips sliding smoothly down to rest against the curled fingers of his own hand. He draws back, pacing his mouth with his fist, curls his tongue around the sweet curve of the shaft, and Sheppard's hips shift minutely upward as though chasing the wet heat of Rodney's mouth.

Sheppard lets out a harsh breath, then another, and groans, "Rodney," a long, hoarse exhalation that sends every bit of blood in Rodney's body directly to Rodney's cock. Rodney moans around Sheppard's cock and lets go of his grip on Sheppard's hip to shove the heel of his hand against his own cock through his pants. "God, your _mouth_ ," Sheppard says, voice throaty and appreciative, and Rodney feels Sheppard's hand over the top of his, lets Sheppard pull Rodney's hand away and replace it with his own.

It shouldn't feel any different -- the angle is too awkward, the distance just a little too great for Sheppard to actually grasp Rodney's cock even if his pants weren't in the way, so it's basically the exact same hard, urgent pressure that Rodney's own hand had been -- but it totally, completely, undeniably _does_ , and Rodney's hips jerk forward into the contact and he hears himself whining urgently around Sheppard's cock.

"Yeah, yeah," Sheppard gasps, hips rocking up a little without Rodney's hand to stop them; Rodney shifts enough to be able to take it without the potential for asphyxiation, and Sheppard make a sound halfway between a moan and a yelp -- an utterly ridiculous sound, Rodney has time to think, before the searing _hotness_ of it blindsides him -- and his cock pulses in Rodney's mouth, hot and twitching against Rodney's tongue, thick and bitter and so good that Rodney desperately jams his hand atop Sheppard's over his own cock and just grinds into the pressure, moaning helplessly around Sheppard's still-spasming cock until he comes so hard his knees unlock and he half-crumples to the ground.

His mouth slides off Sheppard's cock and he makes a grab for the edge of the hammock, but only succeeds in catching Sheppard's hip, and the next thing he knows he's on the ground, flat on his back, and Sheppard is sprawled half on top of him, one hand braced on the ground beside Rodney's head.

Rodney blinks up at him.

New Lanteas F2V has crested, bathing Rodney's balcony in the full glare of midday; it backlights Sheppard, surrounds him in a bright, hot corona.

He's the most gorgeous thing Rodney has ever seen.

And he's grinning down at Rodney, _ohmygod, thatwassocool_ practically radiating off his face, and Rodney, as usual, is utterly helpless to defend against it. "Moron," he mutters helplessly, and Sheppard tips his head back and laughs.

"We're never doing that with you standing up again," Sheppard tells him, laughter still echoing in the air. "You _totally_ passed out from manly orgasm!"

He sounds positively _gleeful_. Rodney sighs and rolls his eyes. "Moron," he repeats fondly, and reaches up to curl a hand around the back of John's neck, and John grins against his mouth and kisses Rodney with dirty, dirty zeal.

 _  
**Fic, SGA, OMG THE FLUFF**   
_


End file.
